Noontime's Darkest Hour
by T.A.Skywalker
Summary: One shot Abarat fic. The whole of Abarat came to attend the wake of the Princess Boa. A single handmaiden watched the scene play out.


Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own anything of the Abarat.

I decided to write this because of a song I keep hearing, "Into the Ocean" by Blue October. If you like the story, tell me...I really like knowing.

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Soma Plume (5pm)

Brena stood with her head bowed patiently waiting her turn. Her black dress swayed slightly with each small step forward but, as she her black veil slightly obscured her vision, it was good she had to move so slowly.

She took a quick glance around. The whole of Abarat seemed to have assembled to join in mourning over the Princess Boa. The wake had been quickly organized but someone such as the Princess was one who would certainly be missed. They were processing passed her coffin by the hour and, as Brena had been one of the lady's handmaidens, she was in the first group to go.

It had, of course, started with the King and Prince of Noon, the deceased father and brother. King Claus had discarded his usual bright attire for the somber colors of the occasion. He had wept hard and was only persuaded to leave the coffin's side by the gentle coaxing of his other child.

Her reminiscing ceased as she came up to take her turn at paying her respects. The coffin was closed. The Princess had had to be cut from inside the dragon and was no longer presentable. The coffin was decorated in the shine and colors of her native hour which, in the current company, made it appear out of place despite it being the center of attention.

She backed away to allow the next in line to go. Lifting her veil she found tears were now on her face. Brushing them aside she looked about the great sea of black. The closest to her were the hours near afternoon and she worked her eyes from the ruffians of Hobarookus, through the outrageously attired Babilonium group, and down through the tarrie-cats of Ninnyhammer. She stopped her observations on a black form too far off to see any details but still identifiable. Gorgossium's representative stood tall and cold beside a black liter. His presence angered her. Wasn't it he who so many were saying had caused this tragedy? But they had no proof and therefore no action could be taken.

Pulling her gaze from his slowly approaching form, she returned to watching the front of the line. The rich and powerful of the Yebba Dim Day dressed in gaudy attire to display their wealth were taking their turn. She wondered about the true depth of emotion this group felt. Where they here because they had loved and adored the Princess or did they merely come to show off in front of all Abarat while playing their political games?

These showoffs were followed on the tail by those of the hour who had managed to scrap the money together for the trip. They were comprised of an odd assortment of fishers and mongers that had the odd shapes from all over the islands. All had done their best to dress up in appropriate colors and style. The end of this group was the current editor of the Almenak, Samuel Hastrim Klepp V. She knew his emotions as were the previous set of commoners' were genuine.

The tarrie-cats of Ninnyhammer advanced next with their multicolored fur covered by thin black veils. Each crept up with tails hanging low and ears dropping forward. A soft mewing filled the air. So full of sadness that she once again found tears on her face.

An odd group of women approached after the cats. She had to assume they were from the next hour of Jiberish. The women all went up as one, stood silently for a moment, and retreated without a noise.

Midnight was next and The Lord of Midnight advanced with his head bowed as low as it would go. He wore a high collar that didn't quite make it all the way up his neck before arching back halfway down itself. The rest of the outfit flowed down his thin frame in a manner that accentuated his great height without revealing much of his build. And it was black, all black, not even the intricate stitch work, which could be seen only in the proper light, was another color. She briefly wondered what the pattern was before deciding that such a morbid man probably thought that scenes of death were appropriate for the occasion.

Thant Yeyla Carrion, or as she was more commonly known as Mater Motley, was in her usual hiding space of her liter, carried by her minions of dark and surrounded by her circle of seamstresses.

As they approached the coffin a withered hand came out from behind the black draping and the whole company halted. The drapes parted and out emerged the oldest looking being that she had ever seen. If death had a form it could use to stalk the earth this old figure would have pleased it. She to wore black, though the extreme simplicity of it stood in stark contrast to that of her grandson who still refused to raise his head.

The pair processed up the dais and stood silently in front of the coffin. Then, Christopher Carrion gave a sudden from head to feet and collapsed forward onto the coffin. Great sobs rushed from him as he clawed at the lid half laying upon it and half kneeling before it while babbling nonsensically.

Mater Motley looked down at him aghast and revolted but quickly grabbed her grandson's arm and jerked him from the coffin. He turned on her with such force he wrenched himself free and bestowed upon her through his tears a look so full of vehement hatred and deathly intents that would have made a weaker being cringe. It was then that she noticed the odd marks upon his mouth. She had never seen the likes of on a person before but it reminded her of something. There was only a brief moment for her to examine them before the Prince of Darkness stormed off the dais. Mater Motley made her way back to the confines of her carriage and showed no signs of hurrying to catch up to her relation who had already made it back at their seat.

Brena watched the dark mistress's slow progress back rather than the two o'clock procession. It was the seamstresses that had caught her attention. The idea of sewing had reminded her about what the marks around Carrion's mouth looked like, a stitching pattern she used occasionally. But why would someone have stitch marks on their mouth?

She decided to worried about him later, now was not the proper occasion. Her gaze once more trailed the line down the inhabitants of night, through the morning but was stopped by a flash of white along the back. She craned around slightly to see who had dared ware white to the funeral. Her breath caught, it couldn't be anyone else. Finnegan Hob stood leaning against a great pillar still wearing his white wedding suit. She stared for a short while unable to make out his expression over such a distance. She knew from his stance what pain and anguish he felt but he also seemed tense as with anger. She felt pain and averted her eyes. Whatever she felt was nothing compared to what he must be going through.

Scanning over the heads of the crowd she stopped on three women not far from her current location. She couldn't even think of what island they could be from. They seemed out of place, not because of their outfits as Finnegan had been but because they talked amongst themselves very animatedly. The oldest one gestured wildly and her long white hair swept about a face full of eagerness and an excited glint shone in her eyes. The other two showed less eagerness but uncertain hope was slowly solidifying with the words of the older woman.

A sudden sound from the front drew her attention back to the dais. The King was once again standing before the crowd looking over them all.

"Thank you all for coming. I…" his voice cracked and he turned away to once more cry into his son.

The crowd began to shuffle and disperse. Standing, she scanned around for the three women but could not find them anywhere. She stopped her search as her eye caught hold of Finnegan making his way against the flow of the crowd towards his bride's remains.

Now that he was closer Brena could see that his suit still bore upon it the stains from the beast he'd killed that fateful day. His face, full of determination, held no tears; he'd already used them all. He stopped before the display of flowers and gifts and took in every item and came to rest on his beloved. His fist clenched and rigidness overtook his body. In a flash he drew his sword and held it at the vertical before his face. He fell down upon one knee and Brena saw him mouthing something. He stood and there was now an energy surging through his body as though this determination had born inside the man something new. She wondered at what this could be as she watched him march away from the scene without looking back.

Taking one last look at the grand coffin and the mourning family, Brena turned and joined the remnants of the crowd still exiting.

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So that's it. I had fun writing most of it, though some was just a drag. It's been a while since I had anything worth putting online. Thanks for reading!

T.A.Skywalker


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